


barrel-aged

by blooddrool



Series: Jonah Week [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, Multi, nonsexual foreplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:28:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24749149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blooddrool/pseuds/blooddrool
Summary: “Relieve my husband of his boots, please,” Clara tells Jonah — and tells Albrecht, too, in her way, “And then I’d like you to come and sit with me.”
Relationships: Clara von Closen/Albrecht von Closen, Jonah Magnus/Albrecht von Closen, Jonah Magnus/Clara von Closen
Series: Jonah Week [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1789657
Comments: 18
Kudos: 34
Collections: Jonah Magnus Week 2020





	barrel-aged

**Author's Note:**

> Jonah Magnus Week day 2 !!
> 
> Prompt: Albrecht (+ Clara) | "Praise kink"

“Pour us both a drink,” Clara says, “won’t you, love?”

Albrecht’s mouth twitches — her first order of the night and she makes it a suggestion. He raises a brow in her direction, otherwise silent and still where he is settled in his armchair, and is rewarded with a grin so bright it might just rival the one she wore on their wedding day.

Feeling playful, then. Feeling _good_ , always, but Albrecht suspects she intends to surprise him.

Surprise _them,_ Albrecht amends, distracted from his thoughts as Jonah crosses his vision. He’s not actually sure Jonah can _be_ surprised, but Clara knows that as well as anyone. It wouldn’t be like her not to try, anyways; she is always trying.

And Jonah, it seems, is content to do as he is told — at least for the moment. Albrecht tracks him as he moves across the room, opening the liquor cabinet close to where Albrecht sits. He considers, head tilted in that way that means he’s thinking very hard about something, standing there with a hand on each of the cabinet’s doors. Fingers off the glass, Albrecht notes. Very nice. And, since he’s already looking, so too are the long, straight lines of his trousers. So too is the cinch of his waist, so very narrow without his coat to box out his figure. So too is the jut of his chin, sharp and angular and very, very lovely when pointed skyward. So too is the–

Ah. So too is the wet, shining grey of his eyes, rolled dramatically to the side so as to watch Albrecht back. Jonah holds his gaze, steady and unblinking from the corner of his eye. Caught red handed, Albrecht muses, and guilty as charged. Albrecht inclines his head, allows this one, small defeat, and looks away — looks instead to Clara, who perches herself on the side of the bed, legs crossed neatly beneath her skirts. She stares at him just as Jonah had, albeit lighter and softer, and Albrecht resigns himself to that defeat as well.

Jonah serves Clara first, pouring her a glass right there at the cabinet before bringing it to her. She takes it with a smile, her fingers brushing his as she takes the snifter into her hand. Jonah smiles back at her — smiles in the way that he always smiles at Clara, the way that Albrecht has never quite understood. Small, subdued. Demure. So very unlike him that it nearly looks _wrong_. At least as wrong as anything can look on him, on that face, beauty that it is.

What secrets they must share, Albrecht thinks, for one such as he to bow so sweetly in her presence. Jonah Magnus is not a man who bends easily, Albrecht knows. But he bends for her. He bends for Clara.

He brings the bottle and a second glass to the small round table at Albrecht’s arm, pouring there with a careful precision that belies his youth. His taste, too, contradictory to his years. Albrecht accepts his drink with a hum, brings the glass to his nose to smell the rich, barrel-aged brandy that settles within. Jonah recorks the bottle, sets it down near Albrecht’s elbow. Looks to Clara.

She swirls her drink in the palm of one hand, her other limp in her lap. She sits like nobility, tall and straight, even with her dress wrinkled at her waist, even with her hair escaping its complicated twist. Flushed cheeks are hard to spot on her, but Albrecht wouldn’t be surprised to feel them warm beneath his hands. She looks at Jonah like a thing on display, standing there looking back at her. Up and down, up and down. Tilts her head and brightens like a star when he lowers his.

“Relieve my husband of his boots, please,” she tells him — and tells Albrecht, too, in her way, “And then I’d like you to come and sit with me.”

Jonah says nothing, a wonder in itself, and Albrecht shifts in his seat as he comes to stand before him, drops to a knee. He motions with a hand, fingers fluttering _come hither_ , and Albrecht places a heel into his open palm.

“I’d like a smoke, if you don’t mind,” he says. Right over Jonah’s head, but Albrecht is sure the question in his tone is as clear to them both as Clara’s command. Albrecht's never bothered to master the art of subtlety. Not the way they have.

Clara sips from her glass, regards him over the lip of it. The dark caramel of the brandy seems especially orange against her skin, wedges of liquid gold between her long, slender fingers. Albrecht wishes, not for the first time, that he could be the stem of her glass, nestled firm and cool against the webbing of her middle and ring.

Clara nods to him once, flicks her gaze back to the length of Jonah’s spine beneath his vest and shirt. Jonah’s fingers rest against Albrecht’s calf as he pulls his boot off, leans over to prop it up against the side of the chair. He takes Albrecht’s other foot in hand as Albrecht reaches into his pocket, fishing for his pipe, which he finds and holds briefly between his teeth to set his drink down; his tobacco, which he opens and packs neatly into the bowl of his pipe; a match, which he holds in his hand as Jonah pulls his second boot off, squeezing his fingers into his leg on the way down.

Jonah lines the boot up with its twin, heel to heel, toe to toe, stands with all the grace that Albrecht has come to expect from him.

“Light me,” Albrecht says, holds the match out to him, thrills at the way his eyes narrow, just slight enough to be visible only to Albrecht. Behind him, Clara starts to let her hair down, one silk-black ringlet at a time.

Jonah takes the match from him, slow but not hesitant. Calibrated, perhaps. Albrecht holds the bit in his teeth. Sits still and steady. Lets Jonah come to him, as is often best with him. And Jonah does come, lowering down with his knee on the cushion of Albrecht’s chair, wedged in beside his thigh. He strikes the match with his own thumbnail, neat little trick that speaks of nights far longer than this one and men far older than Albrecht. Albrecht appreciates him for it — appreciates him like a man ought appreciate all things so artfully aged.

Jonah leans into him to light his pipe — and likely leans into him because he wants to, as well. He protects the match and its flame with his hand cupped around it, holds it down into the bowl of Albrecht’s pipe. Shakes it out when Albrecht motions him away, pulling the spark and the heat and the smoke deep into his lungs. Deeper. Deeper. Jonah stays put, angled to accept, and Albrecht puffs smoke into the space between them.

“Thank you,” Albrecht says, smoke off the tip of his tongue the same color as Jonah’s eyes, dark though they may be.

Jonah hums in response, low and sultry. He removes himself from Albrecht’s space, glances down at the burnt-out match in his hand, then to Albrecht's drink, and Albrecht wonders if he’s considering tossing the match into it. In the periphery of his vision, Albrecht sees Clara beckon with her hand, arm outstretched. Jonah flicks the match into the ashtray. Goes to her.

Albrecht takes his brandy in hand, holds his pipe in the other. Sips and smokes and stretches his legs. Watches with rapt attention as Clara, smiling as she always is, holds her hand out to Jonah. He takes it, of course, and she pulls him down to sit beside her on the edge of the bed, keeps his hand trapped in her own as she drinks.

Jonah is small, but Clara is smaller, and still she commands him with such quiet ferocity, her fingers lacing easily between his own in her lap. Albrecht, separate from them and happier for it, watches Jonah watch her. Watches him watch the dip and swallow of her throat, the flush seal of her lips on her glass, the brandy as it wets the inner pinkening of her mouth. His eyes only rarely stray higher than the arch of her cheekbones, but they do, on occasion, and Albrecht is sure Clara catches him. Once, maybe twice. She rubs slow, mindless circles around the knuckle of his thumb, her fingernail dragging at his skin.

Jonah is good at this. The waiting. The deliberate stillness. Flexing that rare, ancient patience he keeps folded close to his chest. He plays this part of Clara’s game far better than Albrecht ever has, and Clara rewards him for it. She leaves a swallow’s worth of brandy resting in the well of her glass, brings the lip of it up to his mouth. Tips it back with the simple expectation that he will take it.

He does, though the ease with which he opens for her is far cleaner than the execution, a small, golden dribble of brandy escaping from the corner of his mouth. Intentional, surely, but Albrecht does not know whose.

Clara holds her glass up until it’s dry — makes sure of it, even, as she wipes the rim of it against Jonah’s lower lip. She presses it into his free hand, closes his fingers around it with gentle touches of her own, and then chases the alcohol down with her mouth on his.

Watching Jonah be kissed is different from kissing him. Albrecht enjoys both — most men in their circle do — but prefers the former. Prefers this. Prefers the way he is allowed to watch the movements of his mouth, his jaw. Prefers the way he can see that Jonah hardly ever closes his eyes, even as Clara’s flutter shut. Jonah likes to watch as well, though in a way all his own. Open — but averted.

Clara’s hand travels up Jonah’s arm, catches in the folds and wrinkles of his sleeve, drags over the slope of his shoulder. Settles against the side of his throat, cupped over his pulse and high collar with her fingers stretching into the hair at the nape of his neck. Her thumb presses into the straight line of his jaw, slips under it and digs a dent into that soft hollow. Directs him with the push and pull of a single finger. Albrecht sucks at his pipe, keeps his hands occupied. Watching Clara kiss is different, too, from kissing her.

Their parting is wet. Clara holds Jonah’s head in place, kisses his chin where the brandy escaped. When Jonah blinks at her he looks heavy. Slow. Content and quiet the way Albrecht has only ever seen him when he’s got Clara’s hands on him.

Albrecht breathes smoke. Clara scratches at Jonah’s hairline; Jonah’s fingers squeeze around her empty glass in his hand.

“He’s being quite good–” Clara says, soft. She twists to look at Albrecht. Jonah doesn’t. “Isn’t he, Albrecht?”

Albrecht huffs, a scoff colored fond. “Hm,” he grunts, pauses, considers, “Could be better.”

Clara beams at him, her thumbnail going sharp beneath Jonah’s jaw.

“Yes, darling,” she tells him, “I think you’re right,” and Albrecht catches a single flash of Jonah’s teeth, a noise that starts in his chest and stops on his tongue.

And then Clara is pushing him down, and low, and flat, and pinning him to the mattress of their bed.


End file.
